Dear...

Distant and great memory:

The year has become confusing, a strange optimism embraced me. I start writing this letter in July, right in the center, where the streets whisper, and the corners are filled with twentyeight ghosts. I started to do so, motivated by the vision of your steps surrounding the corridors of the cloister, you were arm in arm with some passer-by who let his self-absorption notice in his step. But it wasn't you, it was just a vision, vision of your life and this, in that place and at that moment, made me think again about my destiny.

The sighs through the cold streets, eternal winter that you lived for a few months, the same winter that I suffered in the mornings of waking up early to all the spirits of sad, only in the showcase of the perfect reflection. The streets were not for less nostalgia nor the corners for more memories.

I only think about how to recreate my own myths, my internal rites and my intimate secrets. Then I remember you, live from art or live in art, I begin to question my path as the shadow of being an academic in the world of sterile science and vain smiles. I begin to be who I want and I can, without poison in my blood and with calm emotions to get away from early pain and to be able to calmly approach the route of the jaguar and good exile.
But yes, in everything I do I can be closer to art than in art itself, so as in the labyrinth, I build loopholes, mental metaphors that help me praise myself without falling into narcissism.

Another brief letter, a little more than a postcard, to simply narrate the importance of this day, a belated birthday's day, when I intuit that the path is always delta and that knowing your memories well is similar to the way I relive thoughts inscribed and described between the lines.

See you soon, in a latitude where we find ourselves, as always, in the serendipity of all good thoughts...